


Disintegration

by FizzySodapop



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, But They End up Happy, Don't read this if you haven't seen Infinity War, F/M, I Try To Be Eloquent (it doesn't end well), I'm Bad At Tagging, Lots of Angst, Reader knows he's Spider-Man, Sad May, Sad Peter Parker, Sad Reader, There's some Ned and May but they only show up a little, everyone is sad, spoilers for Infinity War, the snap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 07:14:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15165413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FizzySodapop/pseuds/FizzySodapop
Summary: It starts as a day like any other, but (days are insolent like this; of course as soon as you imply it isn't special it sets out to prove you wrong) shows itself to be different when it has your boyfriend jumping out of a bus to go assist Iron Man in attacking a looming alien spaceship.He tells you he'll be back. He's never lied to you before.You hope he's not going to start now.





	Disintegration

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is my first fanfic on this account and it's ALSO my first Avengers story. Soooo... ahem. I'm not sure how I got characterization, but feel free to criticize me in the comments if you feel so inclined. Also, I mention vomiting, but the description of it isn't graphic, so... um, yeah. That's about it. I hope this isn't as awful as I suspect.

You’re sitting next to him on the bus, headphones plugged in as light music floats into your ears. Your hands are intertwined with his, fingers laced together and palms pressed up against one another. Your head is resting on his shoulder and your eyelids threaten to slide shut. You fight a yawn. 

Peter looks at you, your head on his shoulder, eyes barely open, and grins ruefully. “Maybe pulling an all-nighter to finish the lego Millennium Falcon movie wasn’t such a good idea, huh?” 

You force yourself to lift your head, rubbing sleep from your eyes, and nod. “We’re idiots,” you mumble, and Peter sighs his agreement. You drop your head back to his shoulder and close your eyes as his arm wraps around you, tugging you close into his side. 

However, the peace is interrupted as Peter suddenly sits up straight. Your head is knocked from its resting place (as are your headphones from your ears) and you pout at him, but drop the face as you note his concerned expression. You frown and rest a hand on the side of his face. 

“Peter? What’s going on?” you ask, worry edging its way into your voice. He keeps staring at his arm, and your gaze travels to the spot at which his rests. Your eyes widen as you take in the hairs standing straight up, the goosebumps that have risen on his forearm, and you gulp. 

He looks out the window of the bus and then forward again, towards where Ned sits. He taps on his shoulder and whispers something that you can’t hear. A second later Ned is standing up and screaming something about a spaceship, but you aren’t really paying attention to him. Your eyes are focused on your boyfriend, whose gaze has turned back to the outside of the bus. 

“Peter,” you whisper, and a look of realization flashes across his face before he looks down and closes his eyes. 

He stands like that for a moment, mask clutched in his hand, teeth gritted and eyes shut. Then, he looks at you- really looks at you- and you feel your heart beginning to crack in your chest. 

You can tell that he wants to say something, anything to reassure you and ease the anxiety that he knows his vigilante job causes you, but at the same time he knows that nothing he can tell you could ever be enough. You’ll still worry, still bite your fingernails, still watch the news every night to hear the most recent scoop on Queens’ Spider-Man until he’s back in your arms. So instead, he takes a step forward, resting a heartbreakingly gentle hand on your face and placing his forehead against yours. 

Your eyes are shut again, and you’re breathing heavily. You know he has to go; you know that he and the rest of Queens consider it his responsibility to protect those who can’t protect themselves. But you also know things that the general population doesn’t- that his name is Peter Parker, that he’s a fifteen year old kid, that he’s already lost his mom and dad and uncle, that when he was eight years old he used to sleep cuddled up next to a stuffed bear named Tony after his hero, that he’s terrified of lizards and loves puppies, and you can’t help but think that he’s still so innocent. Yes, maybe Spider-Man is strong and tough and stubborn to a fault, but Peter Parker is so young and bright. He’s got so much ahead of him; you can’t bear the thought that every time he goes outside in that suit he risks losing his future. 

Peter knows that these are the thoughts running through your mind. You’ve poured out to him your anxieties and fears and nightmares, and he’s always been there to reassure you that he’s fine. But this feels different; it feels like more than just a run of the mill bank robbery this time, and based on the screams of the people outside you know it is. 

You look back up into Peter’s face as he strokes his thumb across your cheek, eyes speaking the thousands of words that you know he could never say. He opens his mouth, stares blankly at you for a moment, then lets out a shuddery sigh. 

“I’ll be back,” he whispers. His voice is controlled, frightened, sincere, and you’re not sure how he can pack so much feeling into one tone. “I promise.” 

And then he’s out the window, and your face is cold from the absence of his hand. You watch as he pulls the mask over his head and swings off, towards the thing that is wreaking havoc on the city, away from you. You stare after him, gazing in that direction long after he’s gone, lost in your own terror. You don’t move- can’t move- and Ned has to pull you off of the bus once you reach your apartment building. He tells you what you missed from the driver as you were staring at the window- the field trip is cancelled, and everybody is being returned to their homes- and leaves you to rush into your apartment. 

Once inside, you turn on the news. You see reports that Tony Stark has gone missing, and you remember watching in horror from the bus as he followed the spaceship high up into the atmosphere. You pray that Peter wasn’t with him. 

You check your phone for texts from your boyfriend every few seconds, and each time there’s no message your anxiety meter climbs a bit higher. Your mom asks you if you want anything for lunch, but you decline. The thought of eating right now makes your stomach turn. 

Time passes- you aren’t sure how much; everything is blurred together- and it appears that the press are just as confused about the goings-on of the world as you are. Your fingernails are chewed down to stubs, and your eyes are glued to the TV screen. 

But suddenly, there’s a scream from the kitchen that snaps you out of your trance, and you jump to your feet. “Mom?” you call, frantic, and rush into the next room. 

She’s staring out the window, hand clamped over her mouth, and she looks at you with horror in her eyes. Slowly she raises a shaking hand and points her finger out the window. 

You look outside and gasp. A woman running on the street below dissolves into dust and floats away. A man in a car breaks into bits and what’s left of him is scattered in the wind. A child, clutching onto her mother and screaming, fizzles into particles of nothingness and is carried off into the atmosphere. 

“Oh… my gosh…” you whisper, mouth suddenly dry. A second later something occurs to you- Peter. 

You gasp. Your stomach gives a violent lurch, then heaves, and you sprint to the bathroom. Your shoulders shake as your breakfast makes a reappearance, and you find that you’re sobbing, terrified beyond reason. He has to be okay. He has to be. He swore to you that he’d be back, held your forehead against his and made a promise, and he has to be okay. 

But you know he might not be, and you have no idea what’s going on or where those people went or why they’re suddenly gone. Your mind is in a constant state of fight or flight, has been since the morning, and you sob helplessly. You wipe off your mouth and stumble back into the living room, where the same screams that you hear from outside are echoed on the TV. You flick it off and stare at your phone, willing the screen to light up with a text from Peter. You pray that it will. 

You sit on that couch for hours, and nothing happens. The only text that you get is a frantic one from May, asking if Peter is with you, and the message causes your heart to sink a little lower in your chest. You’d had a small hope that maybe he was with May and had simply forgotten to text you, but it appeared that this was not the case. 

Now you’re still seated on the couch. Your mom comes into the room and gently tells you to go to bed, hand on your shoulder, but you brush her off again. “Fifteen more minutes,” you whisper. Your eyes stay on your phone. “I have to make sure he’s okay.” 

Your mom lets out a resigned sigh and her cool hand slides from your shoulder. You hear her slippers shuffling against the floor as she goes down the hall, but you can’t focus on that. You keep your gaze on your phone. 

Days pass. Your mom gives you food; she brings you breakfast, lunch, dinner, and the occasional snack. Sometimes you eat it, and sometimes you don’t, but she’s consistent and every few hours there is a new plate on the table in front of you. 

Nothing changes, until after… time- some weeks, maybe?- you hear on the TV that Tony Stark has been recovered from a planet called Titan. At first you shrug it off; good for Mr. Stark that he isn't dead. But suddenly you remember how Peter disappeared just before Mr. Stark did. So if Mr. Stark is back, then maybe that means-

A spark of hope flares up in your chest. You shoot to your feet and, calling a hasty goodbye to your mother, who seems startled by your sudden movement, run out of your apartment building and out into the streets of Queens. 

You hail a cab and, panting, hurtle into the backseat. “Industry… place. Stark,” you manage to gasp out, chest heaving. You look up at the cab driver and he nods (you’re not quite sure how he understood what you meant, but what the heck). He starts up the cab and then you’re off. 

Your heart is pounding wildly in your chest. Blood rushes through your head, providing you with a weird, dizzy sensation that only adds to the overwhelming hope that you have suddenly been given. You try to slow your breathing, taking deep breaths in (2, 3, 4) and out (2, 3, 4), but that doesn’t work out and you find yourself just as excited- just as hopeful- as you had been when you first entered the cab. 

After a ride that feels like forever, the cab pulls up in front of Stark Industries. You hurriedly pay the driver (it’s possible you give him way, way too much money, but you’re overly excited and can’t bring yourself to care) and burst out of the cab. 

You jog up to the front desk. “Hey, I need to see Mr. Stark, pl-” you start to say, but you don’t finish as you realize that nobody is manning the desk. All that there is on the desk is the name tag of the man who you assume should be working here- Gregory Redding. You wonder briefly as to where Mr. Redding is, but after a moment you realize that he had probably disintegrated into dust. There’s no hope left for him. He’s gone. 

You shake yourself. But Peter might not be, you think, nodding to yourself. You walk into the elevator that’s just beyond Mr. Redding’s desk, hope still thrumming in your chest. You try not to get too excited- honestly, you do- but you can’t help but bounce on your toes as catchy elevator music plays in the background. Everything just seems so much brighter now that you know Peter might be back. 

The elevator comes to a stop, and the doors slide open. You practically bounce out into the hallway, looking left and right in an attempt to figure out where you’re going. However, your problem is quickly solved when you hear voices coming from down the hall. You start to hurry in that direction, heartbeat pounding out a jaunty rhythm in your ears. 

As you near the room from which the voices are coming, they become louder and more distinct. You slow your pace a little. 

“I’m fine, Pep.” It’s a male voice- more adult-sounding than Peter’s, and less familiar. Based on your options, you assume that this is Tony Stark. He sounds tired. 

“Well Anthony, excuse me for being concerned about you after you spent weeks on a random planet in the middle of space!” That’s got to be Pepper Potts- she sounds spitting fire mad. 

“Pepper, I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t think things would get so bad.” His voice drops on that last part, full of fatigue and tinged with a hint of… regret, it sounds like. 

“But you knew they could and you went anyways! I told you it was a bad idea. Why, Tony, for the first time since we’ve known each other, couldn’t you just listen to me? If you’d only stayed home, it would’ve saved me a whole lot of worry and heartache.” Actually, you take back what you said before about her being mad. Yes, Pepper definitely sounds upset (and if what she said is true, she has good reason to be), but there’s a note of something in the edge of her voice that tells you maybe she’s less angry than she is terrified. 

Mr. Stark seems to pick up on this, too, because his voice softens. “I’m sorry, Pepper. I didn’t mean to scare you. That’s never-” He stops, gulps, continues, “That’s never what I’m aiming to do.” 

“What were you expecting to have happen then, Tony? Of course I was going to be scared. I love you more than anyone else in the world and I thought you were gone forever.” Pepper sounds sad now. You close your eyes and lean against the wall outside, wondering if she’d spent weeks battling that same hope that you now have filling your whole body to the brim and making you want to jump for joy. 

Mr. Stark is quiet. Then, “I love you, too.” Pepper finally lets out a quiet sob, and you hear a footstep on the ground from inside of the room. You assume that Tony has wrapped her up in his arms, and you sigh, imagining yourself back in Peter’s warm embrace. Just a moment now, you tell yourself. Your heart swells with joy. 

You take a deep breath and knock on the door. Mr. Stark and Pepper go quiet. After a moment, Mr. Stark calls, “Who’s there?” 

“Um, hi,” you reply through the door. “I’m- um, my name is Y/N Y/L/N, though I don’t suppose that’s of any meaning to y-” 

The door swings open and you find yourself face to face with billionaire Tony Stark. “Y/N Y/L/N?” You nod, speechless, and he pulls the door open wider. “Here, come on in. Peter told me a lot about you.” 

“He did?” you squeak, a jittery feeling washing over your body. You edge your way into the room, and Mr. Stark nods. 

“Yeah. He said you were a great girlfriend and stuff. Super pretty, very smart, the kindest girl you’d ever meet.” He sits down in a chair next to the one that Pepper has settled herself into, spinning it to face you.

Your heart flutters in your chest. Yep; that sounds like Peter alright. You fight the blush that rises to your cheeks and bite your lip. “Oh,” you say lamely. 

“So I assume you didn’t come here just to chat about our favorite nerd?” Mr. Stark says, an eyebrow raised. You shake your head as the hope washes over you again. 

“Um, no. I actually was wondering if he was… here,” you tell him, hands clasped in front of your chest. You rush out your next sentence. “I mean, I heard on the news that you were back, so I thought maybe if you and he had been in the same place, that meant Peter was back, too.” You give Mr. Stark an awkward smile. 

He suddenly looks tired again. So, so tired. And upset. And guilty. And so sad. He meets your eyes. 

His face says it all. “Kid, I’m sorry. Peter, he fought long and hard, but in the end…” He sighs, shaking his head, and Pepper’s hand slides to cover his, “It just wasn’t enough.”

The world stops. 

You’re floating, somewhere outside the universe. Or maybe deep inside of it. You can’t quite be sure. 

You’re spun around in a slow circle by a force that you can’t see. Your eyes are glassy, and your insides feel hollow. Around you are stars, billions of them, and in the distance there are faint outlines of planets. 

You try to take a deep breath, but you can’t. You’re not breathing. The thought should disturb you, but it doesn’t. Not in the slightest. Instead, you close your eyes and allow yourself to keep spinning, spinning, spinning… 

You feel nothing. In your chest there’s a dull, throbbing sensation where you heart is meant to be, and you’re cold. No emotions crash through your body like raging rivers. No heartbreak tears your insides to shreds and leaves you crying for mercy. No hope fills you up from the tips of your numb toes to the very top of your currently slow-moving head. 

Back in Mr. Stark’s office, you’d been feeling so much. But now there’s nothing. 

The nothing fills you up inside, while at the same time it empties you out. It is a comfort and a tribulation. The great unbalance flooding your being would put you off center, if not for the fact that you’ve already been destroyed by the world and now nothing- nothing, nothing, nothing- can get to you. 

Your eye catches a star (one star out of billions. How does that work, that when there is so much else to see the human eye might still pick out one object out of so many more?). And then, as you stare at it, unseeing and yet witnessing all that the world has to show you, it begins to expand. 

The growth of the star starts out slow, but it gains rapidity as you begin to focus more and more. You begin to wonder things, such as where you are, how you got there, why you are wherever “there” is, why the star seems to be racing towards you at breakneck speed- just as you regain total control of your mind and begin to hyperventilate, the star grows to take up your entire line of vision and you are blinded. You lose consciousness once again. 

Or rather, you gain it. There’s a moment- less than a second, really- during which there’s a high pitched ringing sound and a white light, and then it fades away. You blink a few times and are met with the concerned face of Ms. Potts. 

“Oh, thank goodness you’re awake,” she breathes, leaning back to fan herself with a bunch of papers she’s holding. “Are you okay, honey? Do you need to go to the hospital?” 

You stretch and find that you’re lying on a couch- a very comfortable, bouncy couch that is home to lots of soft pillows- with your head propped up against its arm. You shake your head groggily. “No, ‘m fine, but thank you.” You go to close your eyes again, but they snap open once you realize you’d been talking to the Pepper Potts. Wait, why was Pepper Potts hovering over y- 

Memories come rushing back in. You see recalled news reports and the land of darkness, and you feel flashes of sadness and fear and hope and then… nothing. You gasp audibly. 

“What is it? Do you need some water?” Ms. Potts, the ever-wonderful, very concerned fiancé of Tony Stark, asks you as soon as you make a peep. Her expression conveys worry, and you open your mouth to find that words won’t come. 

They have tumbled over themselves in an effort to get past your lips, to be heard, to make your anguish and overwhelming grief known. But in the process, they have gotten tangled up in one another, stuck in your throat so that if you try to push them up and out, the ball only tightens and you choke. 

You shake your head wordlessly as tears sting your eyes. Despite your silent reassurance that you’re not in need of anything, Pepper hands you a glass of water, and you find yourself grateful for it. You take it and gulp down mouthfuls of the refreshing liquid (this does nothing to loosen the mass of words stuck in your throat). 

Later, Pepper sends you home, though you can tell she’s still concerned about your well-being. She was not able to coax words out of you, which seemed to worry her, but she’ll be fine. You go home and then straight to bed, where memories of Peter run through your mind. 

He asks you out on a date after you do better than him on a test. For the longest time, he’s been the top earner of good marks, but you challenge him in wits and there’s something irresistible about that. His ears turn red as he stands in front of you, stammering out his offer of cupcakes and a walk around the park, and you pretend to think about it, just to see him blush for a little while longer. However, you know there’s no way you’d ever say no. 

He holds your hand for the first time as you ride a rollercoaster together at the fair. His look of exhilaration as the two of you fly through the air is nothing compared to the one of sheer terror that takes its place when he realizes what he’s done, but you just laugh and pull yourself closer to him. 

You kiss him first. The two of you are having a study session, quizzing each other on Napoleon’s conquest, and he looks adorable with his nose scrunched up after you stump him with a particularly difficult question. His big brown eyes travel towards his notes, and you shove them away from him, giggling as he sighs defeatedly. Then, the look of focus comes back and you can hardly contain a squeal- he’s adorable. He pouts at you, his pink lips moving ever so gracefully, and then you can’t take it. You lean forward and press your lips against his soft ones. He’s surprised, but then he relaxes, twining his fingers through yours with a tiny smile on his face. 

You don’t talk anymore after that. Your mother tries to coax you into speech, but every time she does you shake your head and return to your sad life. The knot in your throat remains tight, the ache in your heart continues to throb, and the nothing in your mind grows each day. You speak only in your dreams, the ones where Peter comes back to you. Those are the worst, though; they give you hope, and hope leads only to sorrow. 

Every night, you dream of Peter. He’s standing in your doorway with big, honey brown eyes. His brunette hair is messy. His lips are pink. His teeth are sparkling white and his smile is too big for his face. 

In the dream, you stifle a sob and reach for him. However, as soon as your hand comes close to him, he vanishes into thin air, just like he did on that planet on the day that would change your life forever. “Peter,” you whisper brokenly. Your hand falls with no one to catch it, and you are left to cry alone for your lost love. 

Years pass. You’ve lost contact with most people that you were friends with before The Snap, as it’s now called (you hate Thanos with every fibre of your being; he took everything from you), and you spend your life mostly by yourself. You know that the Avengers (or, whoever is left of them) have been fighting harder and harder to undo The Snap’s affects, but you don’t believe it will do anything. People have tried before. Nothing works. 

Which is why you’re so surprised when you’re walking through Queens and suddenly a cloud of dust flies through the wind and pulls itself together to form the shape of a young woman. She stumbles, then falls onto her knees, then turns her face to the sky and laughs. Her eyes are shut and it’s a sound of pure joy.

Your eyes are wide. As you look around, more and more people form from dust clouds. It doesn’t even register in your mind what’s happening; you only back into a lamppost and then sprint to your apartment. 

Once there, you lock the door, but stand in front of it, staring at it as though it might explode. A second later, a knock sounds, and you jump back. 

You look at the door for a few more seconds, then (slowly, slowly, ever-so-slowly) turn the knob. 

Big, honey brown eyes that are shining with unshed tears. Messy brunette hair. Pink lips. Sparkling white teeth and a smile stretched so wide that it shouldn’t even be possible. 

Shouldn’t even be possible. This is a face from your dreams. 

Still, you reach a hand forward, trembling and shaking in an effort to contain your sobs. You are weak, though, from years of pain and heartache, so your hand drops down, down, down- 

This time, someone catches it. 

A warm hand closes around your wrist, sending a jolt of electricity up your arm that you haven’t felt in so long. You drop all efforts to contain your emotion and let out a strangled cry, lapsing into sobs. You sink to your knees, and he sinks down with you, your wrist still captured in his hand. Your fears, worries, troubles, seem to disintegrate. 

After a moment he pulls you into his chest, and you cling to him immediately. Your body is still shaking from the heavy breathing and sniffling that you are experiencing, so Peter’s sturdiness is so very welcome. 

“Peter,” you whisper, your voice cracking as it is used for the first time in years. You bury your face in his shoulder. 

“Y/N,” he says back, the word spoken as though it speaks volumes of the lost years and the fear and the heartache. 

For with love, the name of the one’s companion becomes sacred. This name is held high above almost all others, for the strong emotion that one feels for he or she who owns this name propels it to greater things than a simple conversational convenience. The tenderness with which this name is spoken may cause a blush, or a swelling of the heart that reduces the name bearer’s ability to think correctly. And with love a name becomes beautiful; a name might be plain until love covers it in roses and fresh drops of dew. At this point, the name is love, and love is the name. 

And so you and Peter stay this way for the rest of the night, wrapped tightly in each other’s arms, you whispering his name and he yours, with all of the sweetness in the world tucked around you and all of the love in the world flowing within.


End file.
